


the plan was follow the plan

by samarskite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detective Grantaire, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jehan is the smartest one, Jehan/Courfeyrac if you squint, M/M, Pining, Undercover, kind of, lawyer Enjolras, very bad humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 22:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11976081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarskite/pseuds/samarskite
Summary: In which Enjolras has to defend a client accused of robbing his own art gallery, Grantaire tries to pick a lock despite being a police detective and everything goes downhill from there.





	the plan was follow the plan

It's a buzz that wakes Enjolras up.

He stirs and opens an eye, trying to make sense of what he just heard.

His single-opened eye wanders through the dark room, until he notices that his phone on the bedside table has lightened up; mumbling, he reaches for it. His eyes, still groggy from the sleep, almost feel physical pain when the light hits them directly. There's a text from Grantaire on the screen:

 

_ (01:35) fuck _

 

Enjolras stares at it for two whole seconds, before his brain catches up.

“Fuck”, he exclaims, suddenly very awake, as he hurriedly rolls out of bed, taking his phone with him.

He briskly walks towards the bathroom, finding on the way Combeferre and Éponine, both of them still awake on the sofa reading a book. Éponine shoots him a questioning look.

“Grantaire”, he says, without stopping to explain.

Éponine glances at the clock on the wall and “Fuck”, she says.

Enjolras can't help but agree with her. He goes into the bathroom, straight towards the third drawer on the left, and takes what he's surely going to need.

Then he remembers why he took his phone with him and texts Grantaire back:

 

_ (01:38) main door, everyone's awake _

 

He has barely sent it in, the doorbell rings.

Enjolras gets out of the bathroom and hurriedly goes to open the door, since it's him who has taken the responsibility for that. He yanks the door open, glances at the man in front of him and doesn't even say hi; he just drags Grantaire inside under the main lamp of the living room.

“Hello yourself”, Grantaire mutters, as if Enjolras didn't do that every time. “Hi, you two“, he adds, when he sees Combeferre and Éponine staring at him from the couch.

They wave back at him with a small, concerned smile.

Enjolras scowls and forces him out of his jacket, out of his hoodie and out of his t-shirt, because he wants to assess the damage.

Grantaire doesn't attempt to make any jokes while he's stripping off, which means it must be bad this time. And it is.

On his naked torso, just right under where approximately his heart is, there's a stab wound wide at least nine centimetres. He's bleeding, a detail that Enjolras hadn't noticed before because of Grantaire's tendency to wear black things.

“Grantaire”, he says, feeling a bit like an exasperated mother. “What the fuck? It's the fourth time this month”. Enjolras manoeuvres him towards the table, and makes him lay down.

Grantaire groans in response, as Enjolras opens the first aid kit he took from the bathroom and looks for cotton and antiseptic.

“He's right, R, you're not made of steel. This has to stop”, Éponine adds, rising from the couch and approaching the man. Enjolras starts cleaning the wound.

Grantaire makes a face. “What is that supposed to mean? What should I say to criminals, _Hey you, stop, in the name of the law, and please don't shoot me or stab me, this is the fourth time this month! Oh, you did it anyway, not cool, man, not coo_ — ooh, _shit_ ”, he hisses at the end of his rant, shooting a nasty glance at the point where Enjolras has just applied the antiseptic. Enjolras suspects that he's more pissed about his sarcasm being ruined than the actual burning.

“Look”, Grantaire adds through his teeth. “I'm sorry about coming here at two in the morning of a Tuesday, but Joly is going to have an actual stroke if he finds out, and —”

“It's not about you coming here at all”, Combeferre intervenes for the first time in the conversation, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “We told you you can come here any time you need. That's not the point, and you know that”.

“It's just that you should start, you know, looking after yourself?”, Éponine says, touching his shoulder gently. “I know it's your job, criminals and everything, but you should pay more attention”.

Grantaire shakes his head and looks down at his wound. “How do you prevent this —”

“You could start with wearing a bulletproof vest? Just so we know that you're at least trying”, Éponine says, half tender and half annoyed.

Grantaire turns to look at her with an affronted expression: “But _that_ is the most anti-aesthetic thing I have ever laid my eyes on”, he says, and she knows he's joking, but it doesn't sound like to.

Grantaire hisses again, as Enjolras gives his last stroke of antiseptic. “You know what else is anti-aesthetic, Grantaire? You being dead”, he snarls with no venom, throwing away the cotton and fishing for the equipment to stitch. They've already had this conversation so many times, and that is unmistakably proved by the fact that, by now, they have developed a system.

Grantaire is great at his job, he catches a lot of bad guys, and he makes Enjolras' job to send them in prison a lot easier (or a lot harder, the few times he had to defend them). But, Enjolras swears to God, Grantaire is also the guy with least self-preservation he has ever seen in his life.

He found out by accident. They met outside the Tribunal, once, and Grantaire had his left, almost broken hand banged up with a napkin and some duct tape. A napkin. And _duct tape_.

When he asked Grantaire about it, he shrugged and said, “Oh, you know, I used to go to the hospital, but then it would take all night for a few stitches, so Joly patched me up for a while, but I'm pretty sure he's going to have an heart attack if I bang on his door bleeding once more, so —”. He shrugged again.

So, it became Enjolras' duty. Grantaire texts him anytime he needs someone to help him out, and Enjolras does as soon as he can. He trusts Grantaire to go to the hospital if it's bad enough that he can't wait for a few hours, and the system has been working so far.

The first times, Grantaire texted him stuff like “ _I wouldn't want to B negative, but I'm kind of bleeding_ ”, or “ _orlando blood at your door_ ”. 

(Enjolras wouldn't admit it, ever, but has always wondered if Grantaire had a list of puns he could use when in need or, even more amazingly disturbing, if he thought them while writing the text, in pain).

But then once, forcibly put to rest on Combeferre and Enjolras' couch, freshly coming from the hospital for a gunshot wound and high as a kite on morphine, Grantaire noticed that first aid kit could be shortened in F.A.K., which caused him a great deal of hilarity. Now, Enjolras simply receives a text with “fuck” if his first aid kit has to intervene. He secretly finds it morbidly funny, but if Grantaire found out that Enjolras thinks he's funny, he would never see the end of it.

“Didn't think you'd care about me being dead”, jokes Grantaire, lifting his head a little so he can look at Enjolras in the eyes.

Enjolras stares back for a few seconds, and something swirls in his insides, so he averts his gaze back to the wound. “I wouldn't”, he says. “I would defend in court whoever had the brilliant idea of finally putting an end to your life and my arse's sufferings”.

Éponine, who is walking towards the fridge, makes a pained groan.

Enjolras stops stitching and looks at her, confused; beneath him, Grantaire is shaking with laughter.

“What?”, Enjolras asks, as Grantaire covers his own eyes with his right arm.

“Apollo, I know you were implying that I'm a pain in your arse, but it was not the best way to put it out —”.

Éponine groans louder. “Stop, please, _stop_ , my ears are bleeding”, she says, closing the fridge with a glass of milk in her hand.

Enjolras clicks his tongue, disappointed, and gives the last stitch; he closes his first aid kit. “It's like we're in a room of five years old. I'm done, Grantaire, do you want some paracetamol?”

Grantaire sits right on the table, and looks at his torso. “Nah”, he says. “I'd better get going”.

Combeferre shakes his head, disapproving, as he gets up from the couch and walks towards his bedroom. “It's late, you should sleep here. We are all going to bed anyway, it's not like you're disturbing”. To emphasise, he yawns. “Goodnight”, Combeferre says, disappearing in his own bedroom with Éponine.

Grantaire wishes goodnight, and he must be exhausted, because he actually looks tempted by the offer.

“Come on”, says Enjolras, walking towards the sofa. “Take my bed”.

Grantaire laughs: “Sorry? I wake you up, you glue me together, you guys let me crash here for the night and I sleep in your bed? A whole, glorious bunch of no way”.

Enjolras jumps on the sofa, and deliberately stretches out so he occupies it wholly. “While you take your _no ways_ in the trash in my bedroom, could you please switch the lights off? Thanks”, he says, laying on his right side and hugging one of the pillows. “Top left drawer is where I keep my sleeping clothes, wear whatever you want”.

Grantaire stays still for a few seconds, probably gaping at him; then, he picks up his bloodied t-shirt and walks towards Enjolras' bedroom, muttering something like “who's the five years old now”.

“If you can't beat them, you become one of them”, Enjolras says when Grantaire switches the living room's lights off, because he's tired and he's oddly feeling in a good mood.

Grantaire's laugh is the last sound he hears before he drifts to sleep.

 

***

 

“Morning”, says Enjolras, sipping his tea as if it were completely normal that he's sitting in the middle of the living room wearing only a pair of boxers.

Grantaire manages to suppress a squeaking sound and stomps hurriedly towards the coffee machine.

“Combeferre and Éponine are already out. Today I am free, though, so you can leave whenever you want”, Enjolras informs him, flipping a page of the block of sheets in front of him. “There's no hurry of locking down the house”.

Grantaire shrugs and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I have the night shift, but I'm getting out of your way as soon as I can”, he promises, cherishing the fact that, for once, he's actually drinking decent coffee. Between Enjolras and Combeferre, he doesn't know who's the fanciest. “Is that a case?”, he asks then, pointing at the block of sheets. He tells himself it is pure courtesy — truth is, he's curious, he wants action and he would kill someone if Enjolras needed him to. That escalated quickly, but sums up the point.  


Enjolras nods. “Yeah”, he says. “I've got this man who owns an art gallery that has been robbed. All the art, stolen. He's been accused of stealing it himself so he could get the insurance money, because a painting from the art gallery has been found in his house. I'm defending him”.

Grantaire approaches cautiously the couch Enjolras is sitting on. He simultaneously wants to know moreabout the case and run away as fast as he can from the proximity of Enjolras in briefs. “Uh”, he hums. “You think he did it?”

Enjolras grimaces. “It doesn't matter if I think he did it. My job is to force the accuse to prove it, and if they don't, then he's free, and it could be because he's innocent or because the accuse is incompetent, either way not because I'm good”.

Grantaire sits next to him. “Never said you were”, he says, stealing a photo of the guy from Enjolras' hands. “I'm going to repeat this kindly, alright? Do _you_ think he did it?”.

Enjolras stops looking at a printed photo of a painted crying boob and stares. “You're such a cop”.

“And you're deflecting. Such a lawyer. You think he did it?”.

Enjolras pauses. “I think he did not. But I don't know based on what, since I've got no leverage, no proof, no nothing. I only have a whiny man to defend who keeps swearing it's not his fault and that he loves his girlfriend and would never do that to her”.

Grantaire thinks it through. He values the pros and the cons, weighs if Enjolras would accept what he's considering to offer, and in the end he just thinks “screw that” and does it: “You should check his house. Do you need a ride?”.

Enjolras stares at him again. “I already checked his house, and I found nothing. What _I wish_ I could check is his girlfriend's house and car, but I can not, because I have no evidence, and therefore no warrant, and therefore no jurisdiction”.

Grantaire sighs, (and Enjolras could swear he heard him whisper “Such a lawyer” under his breath) and says: “I'm giving you a ride to his girlfriend's house. We could start with the car, and see if we find something”.

“Grantaire, we can't _start with the car_. I'm basing my hypothesis on a hunch, there is no proof, and furthermore, you should be resting —”.

Grantaire stands up from the sofa, exasperated. “Who even uses furthermore in a spoken sentence? Listen, you're being stubborn. This is obstruction of justice.” He grabs Enjolras by an arm and drags him on his feet. “Dress the fuck up and let me give you a ride. Unless you don't want me to help you. In that case, I'm out of your way faster than light”.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire's face and probably disastrous bed-hair clearly with mixed feelings in his heart. “I mean, you could give me a ride.”, he says at last. “Give me a hand with this job — do not make the obvious joke, thank you — but don't feel obligated, please. I mean, don't help me because I help you with your wounds”.

Grantaire would like to find the idea offending, but he actually understands where Enjolras is coming from, so he smiles and shrugs: “Don't worry. I'll admit, I feel like I owe you, but this is not my way of paying you back. It's just me offering to help. From ancient college pal to ancient college pal”.

Enjolras smiles himself and walks towards his bedroom. “We're not that ancient”, he says, before shutting the door.

Grantaire would like to say that his crush for him is, but it sounds pathetic even in his mind, so he promptly shuts up and gets dressed himself.

 

***

 

The girlfriend's car is parked right in front of her house, and it looks expensive. Grantaire knows very little about cars, but he grew up with Enjolras and Courfeyrac, so he can smell rich from afar.

The neighbourhood is one of these posh, with-an-evergreen-lawn places, out of town enough it doesn't smell like pollution but not enough to call commuter a person who works in the city.

“What is the girlfriend's job?”, Grantaire asks, getting out of his SUV and staring inquisitively at the posh car.

“She is an artist. The crying boob you saw this morning is hers”, Enjolras says, and even after all these years, Grantaire just can't tell when he's serious and when he's aiming for a flippant remark.

Since the ability of making flippant remarks should be in his CV, though, Grantaire replies: “What a shame I don't like boobs, huh? I like crying, though, the second best stress-reliever, after sex” and then proceeds to cross the road and approach the fancy car.

Enjolras follows him: “It's incredible that I am the one saying this, but have you ever tried vacation days? They work too, you know”.

Grantaire doesn't answer, as he's staring at the inside of the car through the window glass.

“Doesn't that big lump in the backseat look suspicious to you? It looks ominous a-f. You're the lookout”, he says, kneeling on the ground as he starts rummaging in his pockets.

“I am the lookout for what? Are you picking the lock? R, _don't you dare_ open that car, we don't have a —”

“Excuse me, sir? What are you doing?”, a voice calls, coming from their right.

A lady in her seventies, who is wearing a red furry coat and a yellow purse, is approaching them with creased eyebrows.

Enjolras' blood drains from his body all at once, and he wonders if dying feels like this; in the meanwhile, for a split second, Grantaire looks like a deer that's going to be hit by a bus.

But then he stands on his feet, looking around like he's a lost tourist: “Oh. _Oh, honey_. That's not our car. I _told you_ this was not the right car”, he says, violently patting Enjolras on his arm. Enjolras can't help but look at him like he's insane. Three seconds ago Grantaire was trying to force the car lock of his client's girlfriend, and now suddenly he's calling him honey? Have they ever called each other nicknames, other than R and Apollo? “Honey”? “Not their car”? What the fuck? Have they ever had a car together anyway? Of course not, it's not like they're a couple, but — should they? They've been friends for ages now. Grantaire is pretty fit. What is happening? Is Enjolras spiralling in a bottomless whirl of panic and despair? They're going to get sued. He's losing his job. He's going to be sad, single and unemployed for the rest of his life —

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I feel like a horrible person now”; in the midst of Enjolras' crisis, Grantaire hasn't stopped talking. “My boyfriend and I are looking for a new house in this neighbourhood, because it looks so nice, but we didn't find any and now we have lost our car”.

The old lady is looking at them with a perplexed look on her face: “Are you together?”, she asks, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

Enjolras can't either.

“Yeah, we are!, and how we got together is actually a pretty nice story, but we usually save it for parties and family gatherings, don't we, honey?”, Grantaire says, his voice sounding nice, relaxed and easy while he's repeatedly pinching Enjolras' back in the hope of snapping him out of his frozen trance.

Surprisingly, the pinches do their work and finally, Enjolras picks up with what Grantaire is trying to do; he forces himself to smile: “We do, babe. I feel so silly for thinking this was our car. I really need glasses, after all”.

The old lady, even more surprisingly, beams at them and cheerfully says: “Believe me, sir, I have the same problem. Brushes all look the same to me, by now. But I would really love to hear the story of how the two of you have met, and my daughter is hosting a barbecue, tomorrow night. If you're looking for a place to stay in the neighbourhood, you might as well meet the people who live in it, for a start. What do you say?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to say “No, thanks” in the exact same moment when Grantaire pinches him again to shut him up and says “We'd love to! What's the address and the dress code? Or should I say — the ad-dress code?”

Enjolras feels physical pain at the pun, but the old lady laughs out loud and happily gives them the address, promising them that she's going to keep an eye open for a house they could live in.

The whole conversation is so absurd and out of place that Enjolras wonders if he ever really woke up this morning.

The old lady walks away, and Enjolras feels his knees get wobbly from the sudden decrease of adrenaline; luckily enough, at some point during this farse Grantaire put an arm around his waist, and he still hasn't removed it.

“Why did you say yes to the old lady? What were you thinking? Picking a lock? You're a goddamn cop”, Enjolras hisses, trying to act offended but failing horribly because of his shaking voice.

Grantaire starts walking in the opposite direction of the old lady, still holding Enjolras, because he must've understood the critic conditions he's in, and hisses himself: “Okay, first thing's first, her name is Dorice, but you wouldn't know because you were in a fucking coma for half of the conversation. How did you steal candies to your mom when you were a kid? You deafened her with an harangue about your need of sugar?”

Enjolras feels like he should be scoffing, but he doesn't have a single remaining ounce of venom in his body.

Grantaire, on the other hand, is on a roll: “Secondly, that's what bothered you in that whole exchange? Seriously? The October barbecue? To which I said yes, by the way, because she's clearly the gossip girl of the neighbourhood and we could find out something at the party without anyone suspecting anything”.

It is going to take years before Enjolras will ever admit that it was kind of a smart move. But he's feeling belligerent, so he asks: “Why the gay part, though?”

Grantaire grins: “I thought that would be the thing that bugged you the most. You can't resist the power of gay, man. This neighbourhood sweats progressive wannabes all over. They think we're cute, but dumb”.

Enjolras wants to laugh. Grantaire put them in that stupid situation in the first place, but something good could actually come out of his reckless actions.

“Now we're just going to have to be the perfect couple with a perfect backstory”, he says, feeling a little steadier already.

Grantaire lets out a genuine smile: “How hard could it be?”

 

***

 

“There is _no way_ we met at a night at the opera“, Grantaire vehemently says, looking exhausted.

“Why not?”, Enjolras asks, trying to fix the shirt under his jumper.

“Do we look like the couple who would enjoy a night at the opera? Does it even sound like an interesting story to you? _Thank God_ you decided you were better off behind a desk and not undercover somewhere in the Bronx”, Grantaire growls, checking his phone with impatience. “Okay, the car is getting here. Listen to me, this is the story: you're a history teacher, I'm a freelance artist, we met in Rome and then somehow managed to sit next to each other during the flight home. I've never told you, but I asked the boy who was actually sitting next to you to switch places. You like kids and marriage, I am scared of commitment. We want a quiet place where we could build a family. I'm looking for someone to sell my art. We already told each other the big three words and have already met our families. Sounds fine to you?”

Enjolras turns towards him, bewildered. “You're good at this”, he says. He's known Grantaire for a long time, but he has very rarely seen him in the act of doing his job.

“Because I'm witty and handsome”, Grantaire says dismissively, grabbing Enjolras' coat and his jacket and walking out of the door.

“How is your wound, by the way?”, Enjolras follows him and asks, as he's suddenly remembered how all of this started in the first place. “Does it hurt?”

Grantaire shrugs: “Not much, I've been through worse. You sewed it impressively well, if you fail at being a lawyer you could be a doctor, or a stylist”.

“Neither of them require any type of study or talent”, Enjolras says dryly, his lips pinched and slightly quirked up.

Grantaire smiles himself and doesn't answer. He has learnt, with time, to treasure silently the moments in which Enjolras lets himself go, and not point them out. There are small moments, like this one, when he makes a joke and looks pleased of himself, as if he finally got a grip on common human behaviour, and big moments, even rarer, which happen mostly at parties and friendly gatherings. He drinks a few beers, smiles more often, his limbs are looser and gets more easily tongue-tied. Grantaire has learnt, with time, that if people don't look too surprised of his outbursts Enjolras doesn't feel judged, and is more prone to letting himself go.

So, even though it's hard for him, Grantaire shuts up and cherishes in silence.

They put on their coats and take the car that Jehan, bless him, rented for them, the one that resembles the girlfriend's car the most.

Grantaire sits on the driver side, and clicks his tongue; he smiles at Jehan, who's standing on the sidewalk with a wary look. “Has anyone ever told you that you're the best?”.

Even though the streets are getting darker, Grantaire can still see Jehan's cheeks getting slightly flushed, as he makes a jokingly elaborate, fake-pretentious bow.

Grantaire starts the engine. “Can we take it back tomorrow morning? Or is it just for the evening?”.

Jehan shakes his head and makes a hand gesture that resembles the one Enjolras always tried to make when he wanted the family dog to stay still and sit down.

“We can keep it until tomorrow”, Grantaire says, and Jehan nods with a smile. “Okay, great. I'll take you to dinner one of these days. One that has karaoke, possibly”.

Jehan's eyes sparkle with delight, and he waves goodbye. The car starts moving, and Grantaire focuses on the street.

He and Enjolras sit in silence for a while, until Enjolras asks: “It's his birthday in two weeks. Do you know what I should get him?”

Grantaire keeps his eyes on the road. “It's Jehan. As soon as it isn't associated with animal-testing or Rupi Kaur, you're fine, you can get him anything. But he enjoys Latin writers, expecially Ovidius, if you're really desperate. He likes his style”.

Enjolras is silent for a split second too much: “How do you know that? Do you speak in sign language when you're together?”

Grantaire frowns: “No, he told me”.

“Does Jehan speak? I've never heard his voice, not once since I've known him”.

“It's not like he _can't_. He doesn't _want to_. In elementary school he spoke, and he spoke a lot. Then, in seventh grade, one random afternoon, we're reading in my bedroom and he tells me “You know what? I think it could be fun if I didn't speak for a while”. I ask in which ways that could be considered fun, and he tells me that words might get him in trouble. Speaking doesn't give him time to think. So I ask him how much he intends to carry on with this thing of his, and he shrugs. Never spoke again since then. I guess he's enjoying it”.

Enjolras looks surprised. “That's... odd. I didn't know. I simply thought he couldn't speak at all”.

Grantaire shrugs. “Again, it's Jehan we are talking about. I bet one day he'll just walk in and say “Isn't it amazing that any imaginary Greek god was more open minded that the current President of the United States?”, and sip his cappuccino as if nothing happened”.

Enjolras doesn't say anything for the rest of the ride, busy thinking about Jehan, but, as they're approaching the house where the party is, a thought hits him like a slap: “Is it alright to kiss?”

Grantaire parks the car and stares at him with an odd look on his face. “Well, I don't know if your parents ever gave you the fapping-makes-blind-kissing-brings-germs talk, but I can assure you that —”, he starts to say, and Enjolras understands that he formulated the question poorly.

“No, not in general, Grantaire. Tonight. We're supposed to be a couple. Don't couples kiss?”.

Enjolras can pinpoint the exact moment Grantaire understands the question, because his eyes widen and he suddenly looks terrified. “Well. I mean. Kissing is kissing, I guess. If the situation requires it — I mean, if you're not uncomfortable with this. I mean —”

Enjolras, for his and Grantaire's dignity's sake, stops him right there. “I'm fine with that. If needed, I don't care. We can do it”.

Grantaire nods frantically and hurriedly turns to get out of the car.

“Okay”, he breathes, as Enjolras steps out himself and slams the car door. “We can do it.“

Enjolras nods. “It's not like we're undercover with the mafia. It's a barbecue. We can do it”, he agrees stupidly, perfectly aware that they're both trying to reassure each other more about the kissing and less about the socialising and the investigating.

“Okay”, Grantaire repeats. “Let's go”.

“Yeah”, Enjolras agrees. “Or we'll be late”.

Grantaire nods.

They do not move.

 

***

 

The thing is, Enjolras has known Grantaire his whole life. It's not like they've been immediately best friends, they did not share a toy their first day of kindergarten and stuck with each other ever since, but they grew up in the same buildings. They shared the same kindergarten, the same elementary school, the same middle school, the same high school. They weren't always in the same class, and Grantaire used to hang out with different kinds of people, like Jehan, especially in the beginning; whilst Grantaire's parents had to save every single dollar they had to afford the schools they sent him to, Enjolras' parents didn't want him to become a spoiled brat, schooled at home or in private schools, so they sent him to the most high rated public schools in town. They came from different backgrounds. Enjolras wore expensive clothing, not due to his tastes but to his mother's — Grantaire wore average clothing bought by himself.

Grantaire always had launch with Jehan, Enjolras always had lunch with Courfeyrac; the friend had the same social background of the other friend. They recognised each other, in the hallways and in the streets, and they always gave each other the same, curt nod you give to the people you've never met but are sufficiently familiar to be acknowledged.

They spoke for the first time in seventh grade, when Courfeyrac met Jehan at a party and they became friends in an heartbeat. Enjolras still remembers the young version of himself, keeping his heels pinned in the same spot on the ground while Courfeyrac was trying to convince him to sit at Grantaire's and Jehan's table for lunch. 

_ “Come on, it'll be fun!” _

_ “I don't know them. It won't be fun. It'll be weird”. _

_“But that's how you make friends and do things! Human up and overcome the awkward together”_ , Courfeyrac told him (and to these days, Enjolras still tells himself these exact words when he has to get shit done or interact with new people; he and Courf also still use “human up”, because man up or woman up both sound sexist to their ears). _“Listen to me, Enj, Prouvaire is great, he doesn't speak, so you don't even have to deal with the awkwardness of asking him to repeat what he said, and Grantaire is so cool, Jehan told me he makes great origamis and paints his own shirts”._

In the end, Courfeyrac made him choose between sitting alone and sitting with him and the other two, so Enjolras had to relent.

The first interaction with Grantaire was weird, as expected, but it was the good kind of weird. Grantaire looked at him and asked, _“Aren't you the kid who threw a tantrum in fourth grade because not all animal species were represented in the school play about Noah?”_

Enjolras gripped his orange juice as if his life depended on it, and through gritted teeth he nodded, mumbling _“You can't exclude giraffes and rhinos just because you don't have time for their template”._

Grantaire had grinned and said, _“That was awesome. I wanted to follow you in the sit in, but my teacher grabbed me before I even got out of class and got me grounded. Amazing times”._

Enjolras had let out a surprised huff, staring at him: _“Is that why you were in the hallway on a Friday afternoon, painting that giraffe?”_

Grantaire had never stopped grinning, not even when he had started eating his pasta; he swallowed: _“That is exactly why. My teacher somehow thought it was a punishment, but it was the best detention of my life, I swear to God”._

Enjolras remembers distinctly that he had turned towards Courfeyrac and Jehan, who were staring at the two of them. Courfeyrac had mouthed _“This is so pure”_ , and Jehan had waved at him. Enjolras also remembers distinctly that he had thought that now he had three friends instead of one. Three was a great number. And it felt so good he almost wanted to yell and jump around and cry. He didn't, but he sat in front of Grantaire the following day, and the one after, and the one after.

He still does. He and Grantaire never sit at a table beside one another, but always in front of each other, so that Grantaire can grin and steal his food and Enjolras can kick him gently under the table. It's a system. It works.

 

That said, Grantaire has slept in Enjolras' bed. Enjolras has also slept on Grantaire's floor, and Grantaire has slept on his own floor while Enjolras was sleeping in his bed. They've lived together for three months at college, when Grantaire was waiting for someone to seek for a roommate. They've shared food, they've had ups and downs; they didn't speak to each other for three weeks after Grantaire laughed at him and told him he was a delusional idealist. Grantaire has been by Enjolras' side when his parents divorced as much as Courfeyrac was; Grantaire is the one who introduced him to Éponine; Grantaire is the one who taught him how to paint a shirt and how to make a lotus flower out of a napkin, and the one who brought him food and company when Combeferre was on holiday and Enjolras had the flu. 

They have a history. A long history, and a carefully built castle of trust, respect for each other's spaces and non-emotional talking. It's not like they're brothers, because the intimacy they've had has always been too detached to be fraternal; they don't talk feelings; they have some limits, implicitly established, that have never allowed their relationship to become brother-like.

Again, that said, Enjolras' insides are squirming at the thought of having to kiss Grantaire.

Kissing Grantaire now means putting a giant rhino and a huge giraffe in the room, and Enjolras being Enjolras and Grantaire being Grantaire, they're never going to deal with this. And Enjolras doesn't want it to happen: he wants the room to be free of gigantic animals.

Enjolras' mind is still churning thoughts about the topic when Grantaire rings the bell, and Dorice opens the door.

“Welcome, you two! Come in the backyard, so you can meet the other people in the neighbourhood”.

They follow her through the house, while she keeps taking: “Everyone is nice, don't worry. I've managed to gather most of the families I know who live here. There's even my niece, you're lucky! What did you say you do for a living, Adrien?”

Enjolras, busy with staring at the hung portraits and paintings in the house, barely registers that Dorice has called Grantaire with his first name. He wonders if Grantaire gave her Enjolras' first name too. They've never called each other with their first names, for some inexplicable reason.

“I paint, ma'am, I'm an artist. Julien always tells me I should give up on that, but I'm stubborn”, Grantaire politely answers, and there goes answered Enjolras' secret question. Somehow, hearing Grantaire say his name makes him squirm — but also wonder if Grantaire really thinks he would tell him to give up on his dream job. He opens his mouth to contradict him, but Dorice is faster: “Even luckier, then, because my niece is an artist too, and her ex boyfriend sells art! You should meet her and her assistant, tonight”.

Enjolras feels the adrenaline fill his body; he wants to ask since when she broke up with his client, but Grantaire must have a sixth sense for ill-advised bullshit because he grabs Enjolras' hand and says loudly: “It would be a great pleasure, ma'am”.

“What's the plan?”, Enjolras hisses nervously, so that only Grantaire can hear him. Grantaire's answer is “Follow the plan”, which is a very helpful response and does nothing to ease Enjolras' nerves.

All in all, in the end, the barbecue goes well. They meet the girlfriend, Cosette, who looks like one of those hippie artists who wears large pants and sees hidden meanings behind everything in the world. She and Grantaire talk about art for a while, and Enjolras politely listens; she shows them her photos and her paintings on a tablet.

“I like that one”, Enjolras points out, just for the sake of not being the silent stupid boyfriend who never intervenes.

Cosette looks at the painting on the screen with affection: “I painted this one with my ex boyfriend. It's called September 16th, because that's the day it was made. We locked ourselves in a room and painted all day using our naked bodies”.

Grantaire has enough self control to not cringe; since Enjolras doesn't, he turns around before Cosette can see him and wanders around the garden, looking for another glass of wine.

He finds it and drinks it; Enjolras vaguely hears Grantaire asking Cosette why'd they broke up and if she's still sad about it, when he accidentally bumps into a man around his age, tall and thin. Enjolras recognises him as the man Cosette called her assistant. “I'm sorry”, he says, as the man smiles politely.

“Don't worry, that's not a problem. Are you the boyfriend?”, the assistant says pointing at Grantaire, still chatting with Cosette.

Enjolras nods: “I am. You're Cosette's assistant, I imagine. She was just talking with — Adrien about her breakup with the art seller”.

The assistant's lips pinch. “Yeah, they broke up a few weeks ago. He still has boxes of his stuff at Cosette's atelier; I wondered why until four days ago, when I found out that he was arrested for faking a robbery at his gallery. Poor guy, must've been desperate”.

Enjolras gives a careful shrug with his shoulders: “Poor guy indeed, but I would never date someone who commits a crime, doesn't matter how desperate he is”. He realises that his words are slightly out of character as soon as they leave his mouth, but the assistant seems unbothered, caught up in something of his own. “I agree”, he says. “Cosette deserves better than a guy who fakes robberies”.

Enjolras senses something in that sentence that he can't quite pinpoint, but he's quickly interrupted by Grantaire, magically appearing at his side.

“Honey dear, Steve Jobs of my eye, don't you think it's getting late? Don't you have a class to teach to, tomorrow morning?”, he says, voice smooth and inane.

Enjolras looks at his wristwatch, and finds out that it's already midnight. He nods, partly because he trusts Grantaire to know when it's time to back off and partly because leaving means the farce is over, and so is the risk of getting in a situation that requires kissing.

They say their goodbyes in a blur, and Enjolras suddenly finds himself sat in their rented car.

“We did it”, he says, incredulous. Grantaire laughs, and he sounds half jokingly derisive and half exhausted: “We did. We did it and you're slightly drunk”.

Enjolras huffs, affronted: “I'm not”.

Grantaire looks at him with a smile. “You're tipsy, then. But don't deny it, because you were almost swaying when I walked you to the car”.

Grantaire is right, but hell is going to freeze before Enjolras admits it, so he musters every ounce of dignity he can, and proclaims: “That was part of my character. The tipsy history teacher”.

Grantaire laughs again, genuinely this time, and Enjolras feels glad that his great ability at building characters made him laugh.

“Let's get you home, Apollo. I've got work to do and a shit ton of shopping, tomorrow”.

“Why?”, Enjolras asks, confused, as Grantaire starts the engine.

“Because we've got an appointment at Cosette Fauchelevent's workplace on Sunday morning, and I haven't painted in six years”.

 

***

 

“How did it go with Grantaire last night?”, Combeferre casually asks, stabbing his baby carrots with a plastic spork. It's lunch break, and Enjolras' day has been a living hell so far. He uses hell a lot in his figures of speech. He wonders why.

“Fine, I guess. We've got a lead”, Enjolras answers after he's swallowed a bite of his sandwich.

Bahorel, sat next to Combeferre, chomps on a French fry. “Why is he helping you anyway? It's not one of his cases”.

Combeferre eats his last baby carrot. “He keeps getting hurt and overworks himself. His boss is making him do more office work until he learns to, you know, look after himself. I think he wants some action”.

Bahorel makes an humming sound, Enjolras lifts his eyes from the sandwich to Combeferre. “Did he tell you that?”, he asks. He hasn't heard anything of sort from Grantaire.

Combeferre is putting away his Tupperware: “About the office work? Yes. Haven't you noticed that he's had a lot of night shifts in the past two weeks?”.

Grantaire always says that the night shift is detective suicide, because it's mostly office work and nothing interesting ever happens.

Enjolras suddenly wishes he could throw the sandwich away. He didn't know anything about this. He's such a bad friend. “But if it's office work, how did he get stabbed on Tuesday night?”, he asks, confused.

Combeferre stands up from his chair and puts his laptop bag on his left shoulder. “A fight outside a club, I think, but it was one of the few times he got out of the office. Enjolras — didn't he tell you any of this?”

Enjolras silently shakes his head.

Combeferre makes an helpless face and walks away.

Bahorel stops chomping on his fries. “Man, R is a very private guy. It's hard to tell if something's wrong. Don't beat yourself up on this”.

Enjolras throws away his sandwich in the trash can and stands up. He forces himself to smile. “Thanks, Bahorel. See you in court”.

Bahorel shakes his head. “Man, why _the fuck_ did I become a lawyer? I hate hearing this, makes me feel belligerent”.

This makes Enjolras genuinely laugh, as he walks back to the tribunal.

 

***

 

When Enjolras comes back home on Saturday evening, all of his friends are in his living room. Jehan is juggling with three oranges he found God knows where, since neither Enjolras or Combeferre like oranges and don't keep them in the fruit bowl; Éponine is playing Mario Kart with Courfeyrac; Musichetta and Bossuet are watching the match and Combeferre is talking with Joly and Bahorel.

Well, almost all of his friends are there. Grantaire is nowhere to be found.

Enjolras puts down his briefcase and hangs his coat in the closet. “Hello everyone, is Grantaire here?”, he asks, as he walks towards his bedroom to change out of his suit.

“Why, you want to make a flirting competition?”, Éponine asks, leaning towards the right as her Princess Peach faces a curve that's threatening to get her off track. Enjolras opens his mouth to answer something, whatever it comes to his head — something probably filled with venom, since he's tired and angry at himself and at Grantaire, but Combeferre nudges Éponine with his foot and “That was mean”, he tells her, before turning towards Enjolras: “He called, he'll be here in twenty minutes”.

Enjolras nods, grateful to have Combeferre to provide him informations and to prevent him getting into a useless argument, and goes get himself changed.

When he walks out of his bedroom, Grantaire is in his living room, hanging his leather jacket in the closet.

Enjolras ponders his choices. He could speak to Grantaire now, and take the risk of getting into an argument while everybody else is here, or he could bottle up what he wants to say for better times.

In the end, he chooses silence and goes to sit on the couch, next to Jehan.

Grantaire does the same and sits by his side. He smells like paint.

“Good evening”, he tells him with a smile, before turning to join Musichetta and Bossuet.

Enjolras feels his guts wobble happily; this makes him even angrier, because Grantaire is not allowed to make him happy when he's angry at himself and at him.

To distract himself, he turns towards Jehan, who's still juggling.

“How are you?”, he asks, watching the oranges go up and down in Jehan's hands.

Jehan nods, which means he's fine.

“Grantaire told me you used to talk”, Enjolras says, without even knowing why. “I wasn't aware”.

Jehan stops juggling. He is not angry, which was a reaction Enjolras subconsciously feared, but he looks like he's considering what to say. In the end, he nods again with a questioning look. His red hair bounce a little at the motion.

“I don't know, I just — I feel bad. I thought I knew a lot about you, and I didn't know something so simple, because it never crossed my mind to ask. I apologise”, Enjolras says, meaning every word of it.

He thinks back at the day when Courfeyrac forced him to have lunch with Jehan and Grantaire, the day when Kid Enjolras thought he was the happiest person alive because he had three friends. Adult Enjolras is doing a shit job at keeping them.

Jehan, somehow, seems to pick up his internal turmoil because he sits straighter with a determined look in his eyes.

He points at himself, and makes the gesture of zipping his mouth shut. Then, he points at Enjolras, and makes the same gesture. When Enjolras looks confused, he makes a motion with his left hand that keeps going back and forth between him and Enjolras.

In many years of friendship with Jehan, Enjolras has learnt some of his basic language. For unknown reasons, Jehan has always refused to use sign language with his friends, so each one of them has had to learn Jehan's personal way of telling things without a scientific method.

When Jehan makes the continuous back and forth gesture, he usually means “me and you”. This time, Enjolras has the strong suspicion he means “we're alike”.

“So you don't speak, and... I don't speak?”, he asks, still confused. Jehan nods, points at Enjolras and pats his own heart.

Realisation comes crushing down on Enjolras. Jehan is telling him that they're not that different. Jehan doesn't speak in words, but he gestures and writes and has never kept his emotions hidden; Enjolras may use his mouth to speak, but very rarely shares his own feelings. According to Jehan, they're more alike than what they think. They don't _speak_.

He must look pretty shocked, because Jehan smiles and leans towards him to kiss his cheek. Which could either mean “It doesn't matter that you never asked”, or “I love you for who you are anyway”, but it's not that important because Enjolras needs both reassurances to feel at peace with himself right now.

He smiles. “Are you planning on speaking again?”

Jehan smiles mischievously and nods.

“When? Do you know when?”, Enjolras asks. Jehan nods again and makes an exaggerated shrugging gesture. He doesn't want to tell.

He's laughing, though, so Enjolras mirrors him.

“We're going to be fine, Jehan”, he tells him, leaning against the back of his couch. “We're going to find the right words to say, someday”.

Jehan doesn't make any hand gesture, he simply rests his head on Enjolras' shoulder, his juggling oranges forgotten on his lap.

Enjolras figures it means that Jehan is hoping so too.

 

***

 

“How is the night shift?”, Enjolras casually asks as soon as Grantaire buzzes Cosette's atelier.

Grantaire gives him an odd look. “Fine. Why are you asking?”.

In that exact moment, Cosette lets them in.

Grantaire shows her his paintings (which, Enjolras has to admit, are even better than the last ones Grantaire showed him, years ago) and tells her he's interested in selling them. She tells them they're good and she might get them in touch with her old contact, and goes upstairs so she can get the number.

As soon as she goes out of their sight, they start snooping around looking for the boxes the assistant mentioned.

Grantaire finds them in a storage room; he and Enjolras put gloves on and rummage to see if there's something that could help Enjolras' client.

“Shoes, socks, apartment keys, stuffed animals, pills — oh, crap. There's a receipt for a storehouse. _9/16_? Has your client ever mentioned a storehouse?”, Grantaire says, holding a piece of paper. Enjolras frowns, trying to remember, but nothing comes to his mind.

“Found it!”, Cosette announces from upstairs.

Grantaire and Enjolras share a panicked glance; Grantaire takes a quick picture of the receipt with his phone and they hurriedly leave the storage room. Cosette is walking down the stairs.

“The gloves, the gloves, _the gloves_ ”, Grantaire hisses, frantically shoving them in one of his leather jacket's pockets.

“Here it is”, Cosette says cheerfully, emerging from around the corner. She hands Grantaire a business card: “His art gallery is not as good as Marius', but this will have to do, since he might go to jail”. Her big blue eyes suddenly look sad.

“Thank you, Cosette”, Grantaire says, putting the business card in his wallet. “I hope I'm hearing from you very soon”.

Cosette walks them to the door and waves goodbye as they get in the car.

“Her art is shit, but she's such a nice girl”, Grantaire says, driving away.

Enjolras shrugs. “I don't think she's the one who stole the art.”

Grantaire hums in agreement: “She still loves him. We should check the storehouse, though, see what's there”.

Enjolras nods.

 

As per usual, they drive in silence for a while, until Enjolras speaks: “Why didn't you tell me that you're mostly doing office work and you're on night shifts?“

He knows he should let this go, but it bugs him. He and Grantaire have never been the kind of friends who shared intimate experiences, feelings and secrets, but he thinks he has never kept basic events in his daily life from Grantaire. He's interested in knowing what Grantaire thinks about the things that happen to him, his promotions, his won and failed cases. In retrospective, he would also be interested in knowing what Grantaire thinks of him, and his sudden outbursts of loneliness, and the inexplicable tendency to notice if Grantaire is in the room as soon as he walks in, but — that's a whole other business.

Grantaire looks taken aback. “I hope it's temporary. Didn't seem worthy of telling you”, he explains.

“But you told Combeferre”, Enjolras insists, because, let's be honest, that's the real issue here.

“Éponine and Jehan also know”, Grantaire tells Enjolras and, excuse him, that's worse. “But that's not the point. It's different with them”.

Enjolras feels anger rise in his chest. It's a familiar feeling, he's often angry, but rarely at Grantaire. “Why? Why is that different? You hate the night shift, you always say it's detective suicide because you can't get anything done. It should be bothering you”.

“It is bothering me!”, Grantaire insists, and he's rising his voice. Enjolras hates where the conversation is going, but it's a train wreck he can't stop: “Then why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I'm ashamed”, Grantaire says, and he isn't yelling anymore, there's a finality in his voice that's atrocious, like he's giving up and that's the end of the argument.

Enjolras tries to elaborate. “So, what you're telling me, is that you're not ashamed with Combeferre, Éponine and Jehan, but you're ashamed with me?”, he carefully asks. He's gone in full-lawyer-mode, now. There is no way they are going to get out of this alive. This is going to be a disaster.

“Yes. No. I mean — you're Enjolras. I've known you my whole life”, Grantaire tries to explain, but there's no logic in there.

“You met Jehan before”, he says, and his voice is calm and collected, but his heart is pounding. Just like when he's in court.

“Yes, but — come on, Enjolras, don't tell me you're not getting this. You're Julien Enjolras. You're rich and you get shit done. You do your job and you do it well. You're like a god, you know? We are a disaster, we are the end of the world. Jehan hasn't spoken since seventh grade because he's afraid of messing up his life and his big fucking crush, Éponine is a cashier and Combeferre is a lawyer who fucking hates his job. He's wanted to be a coroner his whole life, but he's stuck with what he's doing, because he's good and stopping would be _insane_ ”. Grantaire shrugs helplessly, eyes still on the road. “I am ashamed of being incapable of taking care of myself. I am ashamed of being grounded like a seven years old because I don't know my limits. My boss took away the last and only thing I can do right. So yeah, I was ashamed. I'm sorry I didn't tell you”.

Enjolras' mind is pounding. Has Grantaire felt ashamed with him his whole life? Why is this thing popping out just now? Does that happen with all of his friends? Enjolras feels sick. “Stop the car”.

Grantaire shoots him a worried look, but he pulls over as soon as he can. “Enjolras, what —”.

Enjolras gets out of the car and slams the door. He's making a mistake. He doesn't even know where they are. He doesn't care.

Grantaire rolls the car window down.

“Here. Go, R. Goodbye. Go, so you don't have to feel ashamed in front of me being rich and good at my job anymore”, Enjolras snarls.

Grantaire's face falls: “Enjolras, get in the car. You know I didn't mean that, you're twisting my words —”.

Enjolras turns around and starts walking away. Maybe he's going to find his reaction stupid in a couple of hours, but right now he's hurt and he's furious.

He keeps walking. Grantaire keeps calling him until he disappears around the corner.

After that, Enjolras doesn't know if Grantaire's stopped or if he's just too far to be heard.

 

***

 

That evening, he receives a text from Grantaire. It's a picture of a room full of piled paintings, printed photos and sculptures. The text says,

 

_ (20.56) checked the storehouse. it's full of stolen art. some of it is cosette's. i'm sorry. bye. _

 

Enjolras doesn't text back; he goes to bed, and all he can think is: “Shit”.

 

***

 

Wednesday morning, Grantaire's in Enjolras' living room when he wakes up. Enjolras would like to say that he has to get to work, but it's his free morning. He hates his life.

“I don't want to talk to you”, he says, grumpy from the bad night of sleep he's had and for the Pontmercy case. He's going to lose _so hard_ , he wants to slam his head on some random door until he's injured.

Grantaire, sitting on the couch, looks sad for a split second, before he clears his throat: “I know. I know, and we're not talking. But I was doing my shift last night, and I got a text from Cosette. She wanted to know if she could give you _September 16th_ , since you told her you liked it”.

“It's ugly, I was being polite, I don't want it”, Enjolras says, walking towards the coffee machine.

“I know, but that's not the important bit of this. The receipt was released on 9/16, see?, here”, Grantaire tells him, showing Enjolras the picture he took on his phone. “Cosette told us she locked herself and Marius in a room on that date, and they painted all day. Marius did not steal the art in his gallery. The assistant did”.

Enjolras takes a sip of coffee from his mug. Hope is sparkling in his chest. He feels lighter already. “Why would he do that?”, he asks.

“Because he's in love with Cosette. She and Marius had broken up, but she still loved him, so the assistant tried to get him out of the picture. He stole the art, took Marius' apartment keys from the box of stuff in Cosette's atelier, brought one of the paintings in his home and the police did the rest. He confessed”.

Enjolras doesn't say anything. He's torn between gratitude and anger.

Grantaire takes that as his cue to leave, and stands up from the sofa. “I'm — uhm, I'm leaving now. The boxes are at our precinct. They're evidences, of course, so, if you need them — yeah. I'm leaving.” He turns towards the door. “Bye, Enjolras”.

Enjolras is suddenly reminded of Jehan's gesture of zipping his mouth shut. He feels like Jehan's the wiser one in his stupid group of friends, so he should listen to him, once in a lifetime.

“Grantaire”, he calls. “Grantaire, wait”.

Grantaire stops dead on his tracks in the act of opening the door. He closes it again and turns, but he doesn't say anything.

Enjolras puts down his mug on the kitchen counter. “Listen, I know you weren't implying you're jealous of my financial status, the other day. It's just —”

“I gave you a ton of bullshit”, Grantaire interrupts him, shaking his head. “No one here gives a damn about your money or your career, the truth is that your opinion of me matters more than Jehan's, or Combeferre's, or Éponine's. It always has. It's not like they're not important, but you're more important. I care about what you think of me, a lot. That's why I was ashamed”.

Enjolras fidgets, not feeling at ease, as he gets closer to Grantaire. “My opinion of you has been the highest since you told me you painted that giraffe, Grantaire. I like you because you're brave, and principled, and good at your job. I don't care if you're grounded by your boss behind a desk or if you're doing badass car chasings”.

Grantaire visibly bites back a smile. “That giraffe was the highest point of my entire existence”, he says, tentatively.

Enjolras is getting closer. He feels nervous, and scared of having read it all wrong.

Enjolras realises that Grantaire might be scared too — a thought that had never crossed his mind before, since Grantaire has always looked brave and fearless to his eyes. “Thank you for solving my case”, he says, as he remembers that he still hasn't thanked him.

Grantaire smirks: “You're welcome. I'm a good detective, am I not? I'm very much wasted behind —”

Enjolras grabs his hand. He doesn't know what else he should do to convey his feelings right now, but Grantaire is looking at him like he grew up a second head and all of this is incredibly awkward. But that's what they should do. They should overcome the awkwark together.  


“Do you remember that time when we were in college and we lived together for three months?”, Enjolras asks. Grantaire nods. “I've had your stupid books shattered all over the kitchen for three months, and I loved it. I've had smudges of toothpaste on my bathroom sink for three months, and I loved it. I even loved the fact that you used to watch Merlin on TV the day when they aired my favourite talk show about politics. I loved it. I felt sad when you left“. Enjolras pauses for a split second, and in a breath admits: “I always feel sad when you leave”.

Grantaire kisses him. It's nothing more than a peck at first, but it's enough for Enjolras. “Yes”, he says nodding, and he knows that he talks too much, but he can't help it. “Yes, Grantaire”.

Grantaire kisses him deeper, and Enjolras lets out a tiny whine. Grantaire pulls away with a breathless “Fuck”.

Enjolras manages to smile and point a finger towards the bathroom: “Do you want my first aid kit? It's there under the sink, right beside the cond—” Grantaire groans, sounding jokingly annoyed, and pulls him in a kiss again.

 

***

 

This time around, Enjolras is awake when his phone buzzes.

He stops the movie he's watching and checks the phone. It's Grantaire's usual:

 

_ (21:08) fuck _

 

Enjolras' learnt at his expense that making that first aid kit joke during their first kiss was a mistake. In the last few months, Grantaire's "fuck" texts have reached a whole new level of morbid; sometimes he'll mean that someone stabbed him or punched him, sometimes he'll mean that he's coming at a Enjolras', and he's had an hard day, and he just wants to go to bed. There is no indication whatsoever in the text that suggests which of the two options is going to be.

If Enjolras wasn't so worried for Grantaire's health, he would find it oddly funny; but half of the time, at the end of the day he finds his hands covered in blood, so that kind of ruins the comical part of the whole thing.

He gets up from his bed and goes to the bathroom to pick up the necessary, then buzzes Grantaire in and waits for him at the door.

Grantaire shows up with a huge bruise on his left cheek. Which, at least, is not bleeding.

“I gather that I should put the condoms aside?”, Enjolras jokes, starting to open the first aid kit because, as usual, if you can't beat them, join them.

“No”, Grantaire says matter-of-factly, shaking his head. “That was the _'I-got-elbowed-in-the-face-so-I've-had-a-bad-day'_ kind of fuck. Also, _that_ was a flippant remark, wasn't it? You're getting better at this. I'm so proud of you”.

Enjolras shoots him a dry look: “I've always been good at flippant remarks, and half of your cheek is purple. How on Earth are we supposed to, you know, have an intercourse with that giant, probably painful purple cloud right there? Why are you back at the day shift? God, I hate my life”.

Grantaire grimaces at “intercourse”, but grins at the rest of the sentence. “It's kind of fun, actually”, he says, watching Enjolras turning the big light on and checking his cheek to see if there's something he can do. “Because I met my boss, yesterday, and he told me that, and I quote, _‘some angry blond guy stormed in my office to show me the statistics of the arrests in the last five months, because he wanted to prove that you were wasted behind a desk’_ ”.

Enjolras feels suddenly hot all over, and buries his nose in the first aid kit to fish for some paracetamol. “Must've been a meticulous and scrupulous blond guy. I like people who have at heart the city's well-being, I'd like to meet him someday”.

Grantaire doesn't answer, so Enjolras lifts his gaze and finds out that he's already being stared at. “Thank you”, Grantaire says in a whisper. He looks so tired and pale, with his black curls, his black leather jacket, his black hoodie and his black jeans. But he also looks significantly more alive than he's looked in the last three months, so Enjolras considers it a goal.

“Promise me you're going to look after yourself”, he says, because he's actually worried about him.

“I've got you to look after me”, Grantaire grins. When Enjolras pulls an exasperated face, he adds: “But I'll do my best. I promise. For the sake of this city”.

“Good”, Enjolras nods, then proceeds to shove a tab of paracetamol and a glass of water in Grantaire's hands. “Now take this, so I can order you pizza and we can go to bed. You have to rest”.

Grantaire wisely chooses to not protest, and obeys. “Paracetamol, pizza and bed. Sounds like a plan.”

 

_So let's follow the plan_ , Enjolras thinks, as he pulls out his phone.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing started because I saw an article on Internet that said that two thieves were caught stealing a car and pretended to be gay to get out of it. I loved it, Italy is so full of wonders, sometimes, so I told myself that _I had_ to write a fic about it. But since I also love cop stories (who knew?), I decided to turn things around a bit. I was also very influenced by the fact that I've seen four seasons of Brooklyn Nine-Nine in a month, hence the Peralta/Santiago vibes you might've got from Grantaire and Enjolras and Grantaire's fictional first name. The main plot is also inspired by Brooklyn Nine-Nine's "Boyle's hunch" (3x03). 
> 
> The F.A.K. joke simply came to my mind one random night, when I was falling asleep, and I started laughing on my own.
> 
> Jehan's choice of not speaking was partially inspired by an italian movie, Basilicata coast to coast (watch it if you can, it's great). I'm a bit nervous about that, because I feel like it has been an odd choice, and I'd like to know what you think about it.
> 
> Thanks to Mia for the plot ideas (the "honey, this isn't our car" is hers and for some reason it cracks me up every time) and the support, and thanks to the kind and pure anon who wrote to me on curious cat for telling me they like how I write. I try my best.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it,
> 
> Sam ([obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/))


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